A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

Ove could not in all honesty remember how it all started. It wasn’t the sort of dispute where you did remember. It was more an argument where the little disagreements had ended up so entangled that every new word was treacherously booby-trapped, and in the end it wasn’t possible to open one’s mouth at all without setting off at least four unexploded mines from earlier conflicts.

And when she giggled she sounded the way Ove imagined champagne bubbles would have sounded if they were capable of laughter.